Tuesday, August 23, 2011

War Wounds

In a crowded garden like mine, flowers are bruised by the leaves of their neighbors as they jostle in the evening breeze. A stiff hairy leaf, like a sunflower’s, will rub bald spots on a dahlia bloom. I hate that.

I still pick the flowers, though, then patiently give them little haircuts and put in them in vases, disguising the bald spots with greenery and other flowers. To the uncritical eye, they are still beautiful.

My left inner wrist is a mass of scars: eighteen of them, 2 to 2.5 inches long, running lengthwise up my forearm, across the width of my wrist. I made them with an Exacto knife 24 years ago. Some are thicker than others. I forget they’re there. Then I’ll put out my hand to somebody for some reason, look down, see them, and I feel nothing. Most people say nothing. Neither do I.

It was a bad night. I was 34. I worked on it for a couple of hours. Got drunk and got blood all over the kitchen. Had a young child sleeping in a bedroom. Made a call finally, somebody came and wrapped my wrist in cotton gauze. Two days later, I went to a psychiatric hospital for a couple of weeks. I got better. Two years later, I got sober.

Five years ago, I asked my husband of 14 years to hide the Exacto knives because I heard them calling. He had only known me sober. He had no idea I had been drinking in the garage during that winter. But he knew my scars, and he was scared. So he hid the knives. I got honest and sober again a few months later, but the knives are still in hiding. I asked for one last year to do a project. He couldn’t find it.

In a meeting recently, a guy said he was allergic to alcohol, and when he drinks he breaks out in handcuffs and IVs. I laughed. I break out too, in other things. That’s the back story for this poem:

Wounded Flowers

Flowers speak for me. They say
a leaf is a dangerous thing
a petal, too vulnerable for words.
Look
that leaf is a razor
how it has sliced
that petal.
Oh
when I was young
I could not bear the world.
My blood flowed
with the razors
of other people’s leaves.

Flowers speak for me. They say
perfection
is imperfect.
Look
how my wrists
work in tandem with
the scars that line them
as I snip the razored petals
of the injured
flowers.
Look
how pretty
in their vases
are the wounded.

thank you for being real chris...we all need help sometimes to fight our demons...glad you have those with you that care enough...your poem is beautiful...broken and scarred things carry just as much beauty as the rest in their reflection of reality...

That was moving, and beautiful. I have never thought of injuring myself like that. I did think of suicide, once, very seriously. I called someone and stayed a week in the hospital. Your poem left me breathless.

This post definitely spoke to me on many levels. I understand that letting go of hope for the desperation of what we perceive as relief. Thank you for your honesty and boldness, and your poetry and spirit.

Being a surviver myself only in different ways; your post touched my soul how very brave of you to share so much of your life- it shows how much you have suffered and healed- keep on your road to recovery Johnina :D

Chris, this story along with those that you write about your mother bring tears to my eyes. I understand that pain, have felt it, but didn't act on it, thank God. We stab ourselves in so many ways. I am glad that you are doing okay today. We are all a little bruised and scarred from life.

as Johnina {young-eclectic-encounters} said, your words both in your story and your poem can touch the souls of others who have survived, whatever the stories. i also appreciate you sharing your past pain and what feels like realistic hope for the future. i tend to be the most hopeful when things are the most difficult.

Albert Einstein Quotes

About Me

I'm a poet, gardener, and freelance writer who lives in California by the coast, in a small town surrounded by pastures, woods, and vineyards. Other things I am: recovering LA magazine editor and recovering alcoholic, wife of a tolerant man, mom to two beautiful daughters, mistress of beagles and cats, lover of mysteries and photography, a survivor of suicide, depression, addiction, and sundry minor ailments. I write for a living and write poetry for life.

Who Are You?

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Without Fail

“Things turn out best for the people who make the best out of the way things turn out.” (Art Linkletter)

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We are continually faced with a series of great opportunities brilliantly disguised as insoluble problems. (John W. Gardner)

Survival Tip #19

My strength lies solely in my tenacity. (Louis Pasteur)

I'm a recovering Lutheran

"This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness, not health, but healing, not being but becoming, not rest but exercise. We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it, the process is not yet finished, but it is going on, this is not the end, but it is the road." (Martin Luther)

A Philosophy of Life

“It is by studying little things that we attain the great art of having as little misery and as much happiness as possible.” Samuel Johnson

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My AA Recovery Story

I got sober in 1990 after a life of drug and alcohol addiction, and I had 15 wonderful years. Then I moved and left my homegroup behind. I didn't replace my sponsor, who had died. I didn't work with newcomers, and I went to only one meeting a week. Ultimately, I didn't stay sober. I experienced that strange mental twist, and I picked up. But I jumped back into the program, and my life has continually gotten better. I'm married to a man with 23 years of sobriety, and we work our program at home. AA is the hub the wheel of my life revolves around. I've been able to explore a creative side of my personality that once lived only under the influence of drugs. I have perfect moments during each of my precious days. We are none of us invulnerable to that strange mental twist that precedes the first drink, and all that stands between us and the drink is our constant thought of others. My prayer these days is: God, do your will in and through me today. If I can be an inspiration to others, then my life is rich. God bless you all.

Rosebud on Ice

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome. (Anne Bradstreet)